The Ginger Cat Mystery (3 page)

Exactly a week after the final inquest on John Cornell his son Frank was found lying dead on the half-landing of a staircase leading to the first storey of Marston Manor. He had been shot through the right eye and the bullet had come to rest at the back of his skull. The discovery was made by one of the maids who was taking up morning tea to the young man's bedroom. She fainted and let the tray crash to the floor. Making a swift recovery, she at once roused her mistress who after a lapse of a few minutes sufficiently recovered from her shock to telephone the police. The local sergeant and a constable soon appeared on the scene and after a brief examination the sergeant at once summoned Dr. Redgrave and informed the police at Bury St. Edmunds. Later in the day, the Deputy Chief Constable and a superintendent arrived at Marston Manor. After a very careful investigation and a thorough search for the weapon which could not be found, they concluded that the dead man had been murdered. The assistance of Scotland Yard was promptly asked for and Chief Inspector Heather with Detective-Sergeant Goss arrived from London by car and took charge of the case.

Anthony Vereker, known to his friends as Algernon unabbreviated, returned to his flat in Fenton Street, W., with a large parcel in his right hand and several unmanageable rolls of paper under his left arm. He had forgotten to take his latchkey with him and, having pressed the bell-push of the door, stood listening for the measured tread of his manservant, Albert. Instead of Albert's military slow march he heard rapid footsteps hastening along the corridor from the direction of his studio and next moment the door was pulled unceremoniously open by his friend Manuel Ricardo.

“Hello, Ricky, you here! You're a great stranger. I haven't seen you for some months. Where have you been and what have you been up to?”

“The story's too long to retail on a doormat, Algernon. Come in and make yourself at home in your own flat.”

“Been waiting long for me?”

“I've been here over an hour but good whisky shortens even the longest wait. I've helped myself. I told your man Albert he could go and get me the evening newspapers and that he needn't hurry back. I assured him I'd be in when you returned.”

“That was good of you. Gives the old boy a chance of a breather.”

“Never thought of that. To tell the truth, I never can enjoy myself in your flat when Albert's about. He makes all sorts of ridiculous excuses to enter your studio and looks reproachfully at your decanter every time he comes in. Besides, I've been busy as well. I'm at work on a thriller; they've got a temporary ascendancy over the love serial just now.”

“Why not use some of my cases as material?” asked Vereker.

“Too pedestrian, Algernon. Your business is detection. Nearly as dull as being a policeman on point duty. You mustn't confuse the thriller with a detective story. The latter amuses people by making them think they're thinking, the thriller by doing its damnedest to prevent them thinking at all. You're laden like a pack mule and I deduce you've been in Jermyn Street.”

“Yes. I simply can't pass an artist's colourman's. His shop has the same pull for me as a cocktail bar has for you.”

“
Chacun à son goût
, which I once brilliantly translated at school as ‘each one to his favourite drop.' But you can't be thinking of settling down to paint with this mysterious shooting affair at Marston Manor eating up the columns of the daily Press?”

“I'm tired of crime and seek some other relaxation, Ricky. Do you remember those lines of Gerard Manley Hopkins?

That's just how I feel at the moment. I'm mentally stale. Can you prescribe?”

With these words Vereker flung down his parcels on his studio table and sank wearily into an easy chair.

“I think I diagnose your malady correctly, Algernon. You've got a touch of the disease called ‘rustic bunk' which is prevalent just now. It's not new. Horace suffered from it when he twittered complacently about his Sabine farm. The disease is more rampant in this industrial age and is aggravated by all art, especially poetry. Your chief symptom is a desire for rest and quiet, thatched cottages and buttercups.”

“You're right there. I crave for rest and silence.”

“I thought so. Now listen to this:

“You've a delightful memory, Ricky. Now suggest a remedy for the malady. I must try and wrench myself out of this despondent mood.”

“Six months in the second division is the best cure. The alternative is to go and rusticate where you can't have a hot bath every morning, where woman is brawn served up ugly, and a whist drive is the last thing in thrills. Go with Mr. Yeats to Innisfree or where Mr. Davies said, ‘for I could sit down here alone and count the oak trees one by one!' I've never tried it, but counting oaks one by one must be an excellent sedative. Better still, go to Marston-le-Willows and get busy on your game of detection. I see by the Stop Press news to-night that your friend and rival has gone. ‘Scotland Yard called in. Inspector Heather takes charge. Suffolk police show an example to the rest of England by promptly asking for expert assistance.'”

Vereker, whose eyes were closed and who seemed on the point of falling asleep, suddenly started up in his chair.

“You're not pulling my leg, Ricky?” he asked.

“There's no fun in that, Algernon; it's much too easy. Now take my advice. Don't give Heather a long start. You require a change, mental and physical. Life is movement; therefore, put a jerk into it; pack your bag and set off to-night. If the excitement of sleuthing doesn't cure you of your touch of ‘rustic bunk,' silly Suffolk will.”

Vereker glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and asked, “Do you know anything about how to get there, Ricky?”

“Yes, I know all about it. Marston-le-Willows is this side of Bury St. Edmunds. I remember Bury particularly because it's a magical place. It's as romantic as Baghdad and as somnolent as a hot summer's day. I met Cicely Minto there. You remember Cicely's smile?”

“Very distinctly; a perfect screen grimace. They say monkeys can't smile and I sometimes think it a pity that some women can. But I don't want any of your romantic history. Tell me how to get to Marston.”

“I'm sorry you didn't like Cicely. As for getting to Marston, that's a simple matter. Take a motor-coach from King's Cross. You're down there in three and a half hours. Lovely country, comfortable ride, no changing and there's a delightful pub half-way. I was nearly left behind there once; the barmaid was so good!”

“Yes,” said Vereker slowly as if speaking to himself, “I think I'll go. I ought really to be busy with my painting but I'm feeling disgruntled with art. I'm getting a temperature; first signs of the old detective fever.”

“Give art a rest, Algernon. The more a man gets preoccupied with ideals the farther he gets away from life. I always think your interest in crime's a perfect antidote to painting. You take leave of the abstraction of beauty and rub shoulders with the terrible, sordid motives that drive men to murder. You must go to Marston, dip your fingers in blood, gaze fearlessly on the worst of human passions, wallow in the satanic, gorge yourself with ghastliness. You'll come back to your work refreshed. It's a natural reaction, just as a saint is never so saintly as on the day after he has thoroughly sinned.”

“Do you know when the motor-coach starts?”

“Six o'clock. You'll be in Marston at nine-thirty. That gives you half an hour to fill up before closing time. If I remember well, the inn's called ‘The Dog and Partridge.' I'm really glad you've made up your mind. May I stay here till you return?”

“Of course, Ricky. Albert will look after you and I may want you to do some spade work up here as you've done on former occasions. Can I count on your being here in an emergency?”

“I shall be as fixed as the pole star. I'm absolutely broke and must settle down to work. It's a tragedy that a man of genius should have to write for money, but as old Doctor Johnson said, he's a fool who writes for anything else. That's one of the drawbacks of fame; you can't spend it.”

“I'm glad you're going to be busy; it'll do you good and you can retrench while you're here. I hope there's no young lady in the offing at the moment?”

“None whatever,
mon brave
. Romance is in abeyance; I've spanked Cupid and put him to bed. I've finished with Clara or rather she gave me up for a man called Monty Willis.”

“He was good-looking, I suppose,” said Vereker lighting a cigarette.

“Don't be spiteful, Algernon. No, Monty's as ugly as the average co-respondent and as dreary as a bigamist. Worse still, he wears a bowler hat with brown shoes! In any case, Clara and I could never get on together. She was always trying to explain me to myself in terms of psycho-analysis and I don't like major operations on my human soul.”

“Then I can count on you. I'll tell Albert to pack my bag when he returns.”

“And give me the key of your cellarette. I'm trying to build up a new cocktail. I'm concocting it expressly for use at my uncle's little clerical gatherings. It's a bland little
bijou
and I'm provisionally calling it ‘Gracious Spirit,' but that's sure to be considered in bad taste and I may alter it to ‘Jubilate.'”

Vereker rose from his chair. “I've just got time to run up and see Geordie Stewart of the
Daily Report
,” he said. “On these occasions it's always useful to be the
Daily Report
's special correspondent without portfolio, so to speak. In case Albert doesn't turn up, Ricky, will you pack a bag for me?”

“It'll be ready for you on your return, Algernon. I think I can lay my hands on everything you'll need. You must leave me a few safety-razor blades.”

“Good. Don't forget my Colt automatic.
Au revoir
.”

At five minutes to six, Anthony Vereker strode into the large up-to-date motor-coach station at King's Cross. He was accompanied by Ricardo who was carrying his case and had come to see him off. Passing through the waiting-room, he bought three evening papers at the bookstall, filled his raincoat pocket with his favourite brand of cigarette in case supplies were unobtainable in the wilds of Suffolk, and taking leave of his friend jumped into the coach. Settling himself comfortably in his seat, he opened an attaché case and extracted from it a newspaper-cutting book in which he had methodically pasted all the extracts from
The Times
and the
Daily Telegraph
bearing on the recent and mysterious happenings at Marston Manor. These he read carefully until he had thoroughly memorized all the details of the affair that had so far been made public. At nine-thirty almost to the minute the coach drew up at The Dog and Partridge Inn at Marston-le-Willows. Gathering up his belongings, Vereker alighted and strolled into the front entrance, the door of which was wide open for the autumn night was sultry and windless. Half a dozen villagers were seated at a long deal table, smoking, drinking and talking in the wide brick-floored passage which served as an extra room. A tall, lean man in well-worn breeches and gaiters, coatless and with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, stood leaning against the wall of the passage near the deal table. He had been listening to the conversation and though not of the company, occasionally broke in on their talk with some remark of his own. On Vereker's entry he straightened himself slowly from his relaxed pose and asked, “Yes, sir?”

Satisfied that he was Abner Borham, the landlord, whose name was above the door of the inn, Vereker at once asked if he could have a room. After some hesitation the innkeeper replied that he thought so, but that he would first see his wife. He disappeared and returning a few minutes later said that he had a room but it was not a very nice room for a gentleman. If the gentleman didn't mind being a bit rough and ready the room was vacant and they'd do their utmost to make him comfortable. Three things he could guarantee; “a clean and comfortable bed, good, plain food and sound ale.”

“That's all I want, Mr. Borham. If you'll show me the room I'll leave my baggage up there and then if you can manage it I'd like something to eat.”

“There's plenty of food, sir, if you don't mind a cold meal.”

“I like a cold meal at night.”

“Then we can manage all right, sir,” replied the landlord, and reverting to his ordinary Suffolk intonation and dialect he summoned his wife.

“Look after things, Emily, while I take the gentleman up to his room,” he said to that lady on her appearance and, picking up Vereker's case and attaché case, he led the way upstairs.

After showing Vereker his small, oddly-furnished but spotlessly clean room, he asked, “Any idea how long you're going to stay, sir?”

“I've been sent down on the Marston Manor case by the
Daily Report
. I shall be here till the police have cleared it up. That's as definite as I can be. Have you any other guests at the moment?”

“The detective-inspector from Scotland Yard and a detective-sergeant.”

“Ah, Detective-Inspector Heather and Sergeant Goss. Are they in by any chance?”